Again she did not understand, but in turning to care for her brother she ceased to puzzle over the enigma. Shortly afterwards the patient closed his eyes and fell into a deep sleep. Immediately the girl led the way on tiptoe from the room. She locked the door behind her and preceded Donaldson downstairs. Once below there seemed nothing for him to do but to leave, but, quite aside from the fact that he felt himself to be really needed here, he was as reluctant to depart as a man is to awake from a pleasant dream. She had picked up a white silk Japanese shawl and thrown it about her shoulders. He turned to her with the question, "Is there nothing more I can do for you? Is there no one I may summon to help you?" "I can manage very well now, thank you." "But you can't stay here alone with the boy in this condition." "Why not?" Her reply came like a rebuke of his impetuous presumption. "It is hardly safe for you," he declared more quietly. "It is perfectly safe," she answered evenly. "I suppose there are servants in the house upon whom you can call," he hazarded. She looked a bit embarrassed. "If I should need any one there is my old housekeeper, Marie," she answered. Marie was upstairs, sick in bed with rheumatism, too feeble to move without help. But to confess this fact to him would be almost to force him to stay. As welcome a relief as it would be to have him remain until she had administered the medicine once more, she shrank from placing him in a position where he would have no alternative. She roused herself from the temptation and extended her hand. "Thank you is a weak phrase for all you 've done," she said. "It is enough." He took the hand but he did not say good night. So she withdrew it, her cheeks a bit redder, her eyes, a trick they had when brilliant,